The Promise

by Weisgarber, Ann

  Andre sniffled and mumbled something I couldn’t make out. But maybe I wasn’t trying all that hard since my mind was on Mrs Williams. She had gotten up and was heading down the hall without one look back. Well, I thought. If that didn’t say it all. She didn’t care one little bit about this child. It’d break Bernadette’s heart to see her boy in the hands of this woman.

  I gave Andre a quick hug and let go, rocking back on my heels. His face was swelled up and his little eyes were red. ‘What’s the first rule for top hands?’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘I just wanted to do like always. Why can’t we?’

  ‘No whining, I won’t have it. Now then. What’s the first rule for top hands?’

  He looked down at his knees and pushed at a worn spot in his pants with his fingers. He said, ‘Don’t let the boss down.’

  ‘That’s right. Them are words your daddy lives by, through and through. So you go splash a little water on your face and then you can go help the boss. But wait, hold up. That nose of yours is running bad.’ I fumbled for the handkerchief I carried in the sleeve of my dress, but before I could get it, I heard Mrs Williams say, ‘Andre. Here.’

  She held out a handkerchief. It had more lace to it than solid cloth with a fancy C embroidered in blue. Andre looked at it and then up at her, thick streams running from his nose to his upper lip. Her own lips were mashed together and I thought she was going to turn tail again, but she didn’t. She sat down on the other side of Andre. Before I knew it, Mrs Williams, her hands a little unsteady, dabbed at his cheeks and then took up wiping his nose with that pretty handkerchief. Her ministering took Andre so by surprise that he let her.

  She held the handkerchief to his nose. ‘Blow,’ she said. He did, dirtying that pretty cloth, the kind not meant for nose blowing. When he was done, she folded it into squares like it had just come out fresh from the wash. She left it in the middle of her lap.

  ‘Better?’ she said.

  He pulled his shoulders up to his ears and then dropped them. He wouldn’t look at her. Maybe he was ashamed she’d seen him cry. Or maybe he was blaming her for changing everything. Could be he wasn’t ready to stop thinking about wanting to go to the cemetery. He had a stubborn streak as wide as his daddy’s.

  ‘Good,’ Mrs Williams said. ‘I’m glad because I have something very important that I must ask. Are you ready?’

  He didn’t say anything, but that didn’t bother her. ‘Have you ever been to a place that is new for you?’ she said. ‘A place where you’ve never been?’

  He still wouldn’t look at her, his chin was riding on his chest. She tried again. ‘Have you, Andre?’ She was a coaxer, her words were rolled in sugar. ‘Houston, perhaps? Have you been there?’

  He poked out his bottom lip, but he slipped her a sideways glance.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You can’t imagine such a thing, not today, not when you’re so young. But someday you’ll travel. You’ll board a train and go to a new place.’

  He pursed his lips, considering, his eyebrows pulled together. Mrs Williams waited. After a while, Andre said, ‘I will?’

  ‘I have no doubt of it.’

  Andre squinted his eyes like he was trying to see that train, him riding on it and crossing over the bay.

  Mrs Williams said, ‘You might visit this new place for a day or for a week. Or you might move there, taking everything you own.’ She stopped. Her mouth had gone all tremblylike. I didn’t know what I’d do if she took up crying. She didn’t, though. She got herself some air and started up again. ‘That was what your father did when he was a young man. He boarded a train and left his home in Dayton. And now, that is what I’ve done.’

  ‘Daddy rode a train?’

  ‘He did. He left Ohio and came all the way to Texas. Just as I have.’

  Andre eyed her, his nose scrunched up, those freckles of his changing shape. She said, ‘This house and how you and your father do things are new for me. But it won’t always be this way. I’ll learn. But until that happens, I’ll need your patience. And your help.’

  And there it was: me feeling sorry for her. I didn’t want to, but sorryness washed right over me. I couldn’t do like she had. I couldn’t go live someplace new, not even for a man. Galveston was my home. But if I had to leave, and I couldn’t think why I would, I’d likely freeze up in a new place, overcome by the strangeness of not knowing where I was. Maybe being here froze up Mrs Williams, and it was no wonder. She and Oscar had courted only through letters. I’d seen the ones she wrote to him; he kept them in the roll-top desk. The envelopes were fancy, the color of cream, and the penmanship had so many curves and curls that I could only make out a few words in the address, Galveston and Texas being two of them. I’d seen the letters Oscar tried to write to her, too, the ones with mistakes on them, I figured. More than once I’d found bits of paper with black-curled edges inside of the oven.

  But letters were nothing more than flat words scratched on paper. Mrs Williams might know that on Sundays Oscar carried all his milk to St. Mary’s. But I was willing to bet my last dollar that she didn’t know he gave it to the nuns, him not taking a penny, them having only one milk cow for all those children. Likely she didn’t know either that I packed a picnic lunch on Sundays for Oscar and Andre, and how they went into the city carrying that picnic along with yellow sea daisies kept fresh in a bucket of water. They laid those flowers on Bernadette’s grave. They did it so Andre would know his mama hadn’t just disappeared and flown off to heaven to be with the angels. His mama had a place that marked her; her particulars were carved on a tombstone made of gray granite. ‘Miss Nan,’ Andre had said more than once, ‘I touched Mama’s name. And mine and Daddy’s.’ I’d done the same when I’d gone by myself a few times. I knew my letters good enough to guess some of the words on the stone. Bernadette M. Williams. B. April 5, 1874. D. October 1, 1899.

  After laying the flowers on the grave, Oscar and Andre most always went to the sand hills for their picnic unless it was winter and too cold. And there were other things Mrs Williams wouldn’t know, her not being from here. In the city, Hendley’s on the Strand carried the freshest coffee beans on the island, and over on Mechanic Street, Mistrot’s had a fine selection of fabrics ranging from cotton to silk. Here, down the island, my aunt Mattie made the worst potato salad but folks ate it anyway when she brought it to gatherings. And old Chancy Nelson had a foot missing because he’d been shot at Chickamauga, but he’d kept on fighting anyway, doing General Bragg proud. I was born on the island, I knew these things. But Mrs Williams just got here; she couldn’t know.

  ‘Might I count on your patience?’ she said to Andre. He didn’t say nothing; he just studied her like he was pressing her features to his memory. ‘Andre? Might I?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She gathered up some air and said, ‘There’s one more thing, something important, something I want you to remember.’ She looked right into his eyes. She said, ‘I won’t take your father from you. I didn’t come here to do that.’

  That nearly knocked the wind right out of me. But not her. She smiled at Andre. It was a new smile, one I hadn’t seen from her before. It made everything that was tight and high and mighty about her just slide on away. It turned her soft, making her prettier if such a thing could be. Right then and there, I saw another reason why Oscar married her. He’d likely done it just for the chance to step into the warmth of that smile.

  Her fingers tapped over the back of Andre’s hand. I took that to be her idea of affection but whatever it was, he was wide-eyed with wonderment, him likely feeling this new-found warmth of hers. He looked right up at her, his head back a little. It was like he’d forgotten about going to the cemetery, like he’d forgotten all about his mama. And maybe he had. Maybe he only knew Bernadette’s picture, the one made on her wedding day. That, and the carved letters on her tombstone.

  Mrs Williams said to Andre, ‘Your father is expecting you. I don’t imagine that you want to di
sappoint him, do you?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Good.’ She nodded, and so did Andre, his head bobbing up and down like she held a string with him tied to the other end of it.

  He got up, the leather in his boots squeaking just a tad. They were eye level to one another, him with his hands behind his back. She set that smile of hers on him again. His eyes lit up, then a sly look came over him. He hunched down a little. His hand darted out and he touched Mrs Williams, right on her wrist. Then quick as can be, like he knew he’d done something brave, Andre ran to the front door, grinning big as he flung it open. Without a look back, he shot outside, his footsteps clattering across the veranda and thumping down the steps.

  Well, I thought. Well.

  I got up off of my knees. One pretty smile from Mrs Williams, that was all it took. Not that I was his mother, I knew that. But Andre touching her, it punched a hole in my chest. It made me a little put out with him, too. He had forgotten it was me that rocked him when he cried.

  ‘A sweet boy,’ Mrs Williams said.

  ‘Mostly,’ I said. Now I was put out with myself. I had felt sorry for her and there was no need for such. This woman got everything she wanted.

  I started clearing the table, not caring that she hadn’t eaten more than a few bites. This woman had Oscar and now she was roping in Andre. She had pretty clothes, and she could play the piano like nobody else. She had this house, and she had me cooking and cleaning for her. Men gawked at her. Frank T. was the worst of all, dancing with her while Maggie Mandora watched, fighting back tears. Not that Mrs Williams had noticed; she hadn’t even bothered to say the first thing about me playing the fiddle. Not her. She was too busy being the belle of the ball.

  I plunked the dirty dishes down harder on the counter than what was called for. I said, ‘Folks sure did give you a mighty big welcome last night.’

  ‘They did indeed. They were very kind. But of course you were the one whom everyone admired. You played beautifully.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘But yes, the community did turn out. People were curious, I suppose. Oscar Williams’ new wife. They must have wondered what I was like.’

  I hunched over one of the dishes, working at a spot of dried-up food with my thumbnail. She said, ‘I recognize that I might be seen as an oddity.’

  She didn’t know the half of it. She’d showed up from nowhere, nobody knowing one thing about her, the wedding happening in a flash. I put the dish on the counter. I said, ‘It’s ’cause you come from up North.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Like you said. You’re new to these parts.’

  ‘Yes. I’m the stranger.’

  I worked the pump, filling the wash basin, glad for once that Oscar hadn’t gotten around to oiling away its wheezy squeak. I wished she’d get up and leave me be. Calling herself a stranger was her way of getting me to feel sorry for her again.

  The wash basin filled now, I got a bar of soap and lathered up, ready to put breakfast behind me. I picked up a plate. It had a dab of butter on it and leftover grits. She had me so rattled that I’d forgotten to scrape the dishes.

  ‘Miss Ogden,’ she said. ‘Would you sit down for a moment?’

  I turned and looked at her.

  ‘Please.’

  I had dishes to wash and floors to sweep. It was Sunday, my half-day off, the day I had to pack all of my chores into the morning.

  She said, ‘I know you’re busy. I won’t take much of your time.’

  Mama would tell me to sit down with this woman. Mrs Williams was in need of a spot of company, she’d say. ‘Well, all right,’ I said, but I was talking to Mama, not Mrs Williams. I shook out my hands, and dried them on my apron. I pulled out the bench across from her, sat down, and folded my arms on the table.

  ‘Tell me how she died,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  That came as a surprise; I hardly knew what to make of it.

  ‘Andre’s mother,’ Mrs Williams said. ‘Had she been ill? Or perhaps there had been an accident.’

  ‘That’s not mine to tell. That’s for Mr Williams.’

  ‘Yes. I understand. But you see, I find myself in rather an awkward position. It’s as if I’ve arrived in the middle of a play and must try to make sense of it all. I could ask Oscar – Mr Williams – but that might open wounds.’

  She said that like wounds could heal. Wounds stayed wounds. A person just got so they knew that; they just got to where they put one foot in front of the other. But I figured Mrs Williams didn’t know much about sorrow.

  Across from me, she pinned me with them blue eyes of hers. She might not know anything about sorrow, but she did know a little something about coming into another woman’s house. It’d haunt me, if I had to do such, thinking about somebody I couldn’t give shape to. I’d want to know. But if somebody was to ask me about Oakley Hill’s drowning, about the waiting for him to be found, and then how he looked, I wouldn’t want to say it. I wouldn’t want to say it about Joe Pete Conley either, how he’d suffered with lockjaw, getting all stiff, and then that burning fever and him likely knowing what was bound to come. I couldn’t put words to none of that, somebody else would have to do it for me.

  I said, ‘Malaria took her.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Mrs Williams brushed the side of her hand over her part of the table, gathering up a little hill of crumbs. She said, ‘This was last October? Was she in the hospital? Or here?’

  ‘Here.’

  A tight look came over her face, and I guessed what she was thinking. I said, ‘Mr Williams and Daddy burned the mattress. Burned the bedclothes, the netting too. There wasn’t no need for that: folks say it ain’t catching that way. Skeeters carry it; most of us have a touch of it now and again. But Mr Williams had it fixed otherwise in his mind so Daddy went on and helped him.’

  ‘You have malaria?’

  ‘A touch.’

  ‘And Oscar? Andre?’

  ‘Not Andre. He don’t sit still long enough for skeeters to light on him.’

  The corners of her mouth lifted, then she got all serious again. She said, ‘Where is Andre’s mother buried?’

  ‘In the city cemetery. On Broadway.’

  ‘Oscar takes Andre to see her grave?’

  ‘Every Sunday if it ain’t raining. They lay flowers.’

  Mrs Williams looked off, her blue eyes going all dim. Her forehead was beaded up with sweat, and her shirtwaist stuck to her skin just above her bosom. She didn’t know that in the summer, nobody cinched their corsets tight or wore high collars. Leastways we didn’t on our end of the island.

  She said, ‘Last night at the dance I thought I might meet her family. Her parents or brothers and sisters, if she had any.’

  ‘There’s only her mama and Mr Williams has nothing to do with her.’

  ‘That sounds rather ominous.’

  I wished she’d talk regular so a person could understand her on the first try. I combed through her words, then said, ‘Her mama lives on Post Office Street. Leastways she did last any of us heard. She drifts over to Louisiana from time to time, her being a Cajun.’

  ‘Cajun?’

  ‘She’s a Frenchy. They come from Louisiana mainly. They’re swamp people.’

  Mrs Williams’ lips pursed up at that. After a while, she said, ‘I’m not familiar with this Post Office Street.’

  ‘There’s a stretch of it that ain’t proper, let’s just leave it at that. It ain’t no place to raise a child, especially a girl. The nuns got ahold of Bernadette before it was too late; they got her out of that place and raised her up.’

  A kind of quaky look came over Mrs Williams like she had just gotten a mouthful of something bad, and I figured she had. Bernadette’s mother was no good. As for her father, there was no telling who he was, but I didn’t say that. It’d shame Bernadette. Not that she came from bad blood, not all the way. She had a grandma over there in Louisiana, and when Bernadette was little, her mama would leave her there from time to time.
‘Grandmère cooked like nobody else,’ Bernadette would say. ‘And she had a garden like your mama’s, raising carrots, greens, and melons. I used to help her, holding the stakes and patting the ground when she’d put in the seedlings. And Grandpère, he made pirogues, his boats so light they were like herons skimming the Atchafalaya.’

  Mrs Williams said, ‘You and she were friends?’

  Me and Bernadette were more than friends; we saw eye-to-eye on most things. Once in a while, I’d come by to see her after I’d finished helping Mama at home. I’d be walking through the back pasture and there’d be Bernadette, coming to meet me. ‘I was just now thinking of you, Nan,’ she’d say, that curly black hair of hers coming loose from her ribbon. ‘Just now. And here you are.’ I’d roll up my sleeves, and me and her would scrub clothes or I’d help out with the cooking. She was a little thing. Mama said that was because Bernadette was nothing but a half-starved shadow of a girl when the nuns found her. But she wasn’t scared of hard work. She made this house of hers shine, she was that proud of it. Sometimes she’d sing while we’d do the chores, her calling up swamp songs. For a while, she made me sit at the table so she could teach me my letters. The nuns had taught her to read and write, and she thought everybody needed to know how. But I didn’t like school and how the schoolteachers looked down their noses at me and my brothers, us coming from down the island. ‘It ain’t in me,’ I’d tell Bernadette. ‘I don’t like sitting still. My hand’s fighting this pencil.’ But Bernadette wouldn’t listen. ‘Try again,’ she’d say as she guided my hand.

  Other times me and Bernadette talked about the oddness of the world and how there were just enough good times to make the rough patches easier. When Bernadette took to thinking about her mama and worrying about the life she was living, I’d listen, not passing on one ounce of judgment. When I’d get to missing Oakley Hill, she’d say, ‘Tell me about him, me not ever knowing him. Say his name, say it right out loud.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said to Mrs Williams. ‘Me and Bernadette were friends.’ She looked to be turning that over in her mind. I said, ‘She was expecting. That’s why malaria took her.’